


How Many Seconds in Eternity

by TaleasOldasTimeandSpace



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Sherlolly - Freeform, i blame the final problem, it whacked me over the head with doctor who series 9 finale-level feels and this is the result, resolution for the ily scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 12:06:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9490313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaleasOldasTimeandSpace/pseuds/TaleasOldasTimeandSpace
Summary: Two minutes isn't a long time, not really.Just long enough to obliterate Molly's world.





	

The line went dead, but it was another ten seconds before Molly could put down the phone.  She slowly placed it on the counter and stared at it, before reaching for the tea she desperately needed.  It was still hot enough to burn her fingers when she grabbed it by the mug rather than the handle, which was enough to shock her out of her stupor.  Of course, it hadn’t been all that long since she made it, not really.  Barely four minutes.  It felt like an eternity.  Trust Sherlock to be able to take her day from bad to apocalyptic in a little under two minutes.

Taking the tea to the living room, she collapsed on the sofa and released a shuddering breath.  Toby hopped up on her lap, butting her arm with his head until she started stroking him.  He had a sixth sense for when Sherlock blew her equilibrium to smithereens.  The two of them had been in this position far too many times over the years, Toby purring on her lap while she bemoaned her relationship—or lack thereof—with the consulting prat. 

She’d thought—she’d really thought—that they’d moved beyond this, that they were finally friends.  Sherlock had been uncommonly considerate of everyone since the Smith case (except Anderson, of course, but some things never change), and she’d honestly thought they were in a good place.  She’d thought, after years of misunderstandings and cruel words and bad timing and being just out of step with each other, that they were finally on the same page.  That they were finally on an equal footing.  Then he had to go and make that horrible phone call, and suddenly she was spiraling back to that awful Christmas when he’d humiliated her in front of all their friends.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true.  If they’d been face-to-face, she would have definitely slapped him again.  And it was probably just wishful thinking, but he’d sounded almost as shattered by the whole ordeal as she was, which made no sense.  _He’d_ called _her_ , after all.  But he’d almost sounded panicked when she’d threatened to hang up.  He’d actually begged.  Sherlock Holmes had begged!  And when he’d said…it…that second time, she could almost convince herself that he really did mean it…

‘Enough!’  Angrily, she swiped at her eyes.  She’d wasted far too many tears on Sherlock over the years.  ‘I’m done, Toby,’ she informed the cat, who had stopped purring to blink up at her.  ‘I don’t know what game he’s playing this time, and I don’t care.  If he hasn’t learned by now that he can’t treat people this way, he never will.’  She drained tea—which really had gone cold, this time—and stood up, scooping Toby into her arms as she did.  There was only one way to deal with the afternoon:  leftover takeaway and a Doctor Who marathon.

Where was a mad man with a time machine when she really needed one, anyway?

The next morning she felt, not good, per say, but better.  Better than she’d expected, actually.  She pulled on comfortable leggings and an oversized, cheerful yellow shirt that read _Don’t Forget to Smile._   Sometimes she needed the reminder.  It looked like a relatively sunny day outside, and she knew if she stayed in her house she’d go mad thinking about and trying not to think about yesterday.  So, after filling a travel mug with coffee, she grabbed a light jacket and opened her door.

She was not expecting to have to jump back with a yelp as approximately six feet of belstaff-wrapped consulting detective literally fell at her feet.

‘Sherlock?  What are you _doing_ here?’

He blinked blearily up at her.  ‘I needed to see you.’

‘Have…have you been sitting on my doorstep all night?’

‘Not _all_ night.  Only since roughly,’ he squinted at his watch before letting his hand fall back to the floor, ‘four o’clock this morning.  That’s when we got back to London.’

‘“We?”’

‘John and I.’

‘So you sat on my doorstep for three hours?  Why didn’t you pick the lock?  Or better yet, why didn’t you go home and wait ’til a reasonable hour?’

He looked mildly indignant.  ‘Even I know breaking into your house after…yesterday is a bit not good.  And Baker Street got blown up, so I didn’t really have anywhere else to go.’

They both knew that wasn’t true—he could easily have stayed with John and Rosie—but she ignored it, choosing instead to leave him sprawled on her threshold as she went to flop on her sofa.  Waving a listless hand toward her kitchen, she said, ‘There should be some coffee left.’

Wordlessly, he clambered to his feet, fixed himself a cup, and came to perch beside her.  She took a moment to study him now that they were both upright, and was shocked to realize that he looked as broken as she felt.  Maybe even more so.  ‘You look terrible.’  Even a year ago, she would have scrambled to take the sting from her words.  Now she just sipped her coffee and watched him, eyebrow raised.

He smiled briefly before dropping his gaze to his coffee.  ‘Getting blown up will do that to you.  Not to mention being treated like a lab rat by the psychotic, homicidal sister I didn’t know I had and discovering that my childhood was largely a lie.’

She blinked.  ‘You have a sister?  What am I saying, of course you have a sister, and of course she’s a psychopath.  You Holmeses can’t do anything the easy way, can you?’

He glanced up at her.  ‘I rather think we can’t.’  His eyes were so sad.  She lowered her own eyes to his white-knuckle grip on his coffee mug rather than continue to meet his gaze.  She frowned, narrowing her eyes.  His hands were covered in tiny cuts.

‘What did you do to your hands?’

His fingers twitched, and he relaxed his hold.  ‘I…uh…I lost a fight with a coffin.’

She sighed, taking a long pull from her mug.  ‘Right.  Start from the beginning, Sherlock.  Maybe it’ll actually make sense that way.’

So he did.  He told her everything, starting with his discovery of Eurus’ existence to the grenade she sent to Baker Street to Sherrinford and her insane murder labyrinth—‘John’s words, not mine,’ he was quick to clarify—to Musgrave and Victor Trevor and the girl in the plane.  His voice was completely steady through the whole recital, except for two points:  when he talked about discovering that Eurus had murdered his childhood friend, and when he talked about their phone call.

When he finished, he drained his coffee, grimacing at the now-cold temperature.

She sagged against the cushions, clutching a throw pillow to her chest.  She didn’t remember picking it up.  ‘Wow.  That’s… You… I can’t… Wow.’

‘Not a particularly eloquent statement, but a fairly accurate summary of events nonetheless.’  He risked a small grin at her, and she tightened her arms around the pillow in an effort to resist swatting him with it.

‘So when you said you lost a fight with a coffin…’

His grin faded.  ‘The coffin was a representation of you, of what I thought would happen to you if I couldn’t get you to say the release code.’

‘But Eurus lied about the explosives.’

‘She did.  And all I could think about was that I’d hurt you, _again,_ and all I could see was you lying in that coffin.  So I smashed it.’  He flexed his hands, wincing.  ‘It was not, I admit, the smartest move.  But then, I’ve been made aware that I’m rather more emotional than I’ve chosen to believe.’

‘Well, I suppose it’s not that different from shooting the wall when a case isn’t going your way, is it?  Just harder on your hands.’  She forced a laugh.

‘It is different.’  Tentatively, he reached out and took one of her hands in his.  ‘I _am_ sorry, Molly.  I never wanted to do that to you.’

She lifted one shoulder, staring at their hands.  She’d never realized just how small her hand was compared to his.  ‘No, I understand.  You did what you had to do to save my life.  I can’t really fault you for that, though goodness knows I want to.  But you hurt me, Sherlock.  Even if you didn’t want to.  I can’t pretend it didn’t happen.’  Glancing up, she found him staring at her intently, almost as if he were deducing her.

‘I wouldn’t want you to.  Molly…’  He swallowed.  ‘I was trying to save your life, and I do regret how it happened, but I… I don’t regret that it happened.’

‘What are you saying?’ she whispered.

‘That I did mean it.’  He sucked in a deep breath.  ‘I love you, Molly Hooper.’

She exhaled with a whoosh as tears pricked her eyes, and all she could do was sit there, blinking rapidly.

‘Molly?  Are you alright?  I’ve mucked this up, haven’t I?  What can I do?  What do you need?’

She gave a choked, sobbing laugh, and threw her arms around him.  ‘You,’ she said, and kissed him.

It took two minutes for the world to end, but only a little longer for a new one to begin.

**Author's Note:**

> *dips toes in new fandom and waves awkwardly* Hiiiii! I never thought I'd be here, but between Series 4 and the obnoxious amounts of Sherlolly I've been consuming lately, I guess it's not all that surprising.
> 
> I think it probably would have taken Molly longer to forgive Sherlock, but that's not the way this story wanted to go. Besides, I'm rubbish at angst and fluff is my superpower.
> 
> Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to the Darcy Lewis story I'm ignoring in favour of Sherlolly.
> 
> Come [shoot the breeze](https://taleasoldastime-andspace.tumblr.com/ask) on tumblr!


End file.
